


Rage of Angels

by Yenneffer



Series: Rage of Angels [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: AU, Angst, Character Death, Gen, Slash in later stories, vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yenneffer/pseuds/Yenneffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lancelot is a vampire.<br/>(everything else comes, as usual, later).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage of Angels

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny will - hopefully - develop into a full story arc. I've started it a long time ago, and I do have a few fics written already. This one is from Lancelot's POV, but there should be soon uploaded one from Arthur's as well. 
> 
> A word of warning to Twilight fans: I am not a fan of S. Meyer's view on vampires (or what I know of it) so there'll be no connection to that particular vampire fandom.

Shades of trees.

Shades within shades within shades, and he saw them all, cataloguing, sorting, noticing the greater darkness where it was, as well as seeing the lighter gradients of coming shadows.

It was late, and all a human would be able to tell was that it was dark. But _he_ could notice the beauty of the night, her numerous faces. He was denied the glory of days, but there were other... pleasures to be taken from this world.

He stands, still and quiet, dissolving into the shadows under the trees, becoming one of their shades. Quiet and watchful and waiting.

She is miserable, and so tired of living. Her bastard of a husband, the one who was now drinking with his buddies in a foul tavern four buildings from here will be home soon (too soon) and he’ll hit her, again. He will beat her into unconsciousness and she’ll hide her bruises later, covering them with tears and misery.

He would be so drunk on coming home.

Lancelot opened his eyes. Dark, impossibly deep eyes. Eyes that were too hungry to be human, too vivid and passionate to be called anything but animalistic in their primal urges.

She calls, she is calling to everyone within a radius of many yards, and no one yet deigned to answer her. She is so tired. Tired of her house chores, tired of no help. Her hands are rough from work, raw skin bleeding from bruises and scratches; she is tired of wrapping the small wounds up, of covering the body that should by all means be young and healthy.

She wants help, she wants someone.

When he moves from beneath the trees, the shadows -all of them- move with him, serene and mournful. They covet him closely, jealously guarding his graceful movements that carry him too fast to the slightly damaged door with rusty doorknob.

Lancelot reached his pale hand out, gently pressing on the old door, entering the even older dwellings. The place was in ruin, rotting slowly to death, the wooden structures dying together with their twice damned owners. And people were afraid of him. This filth- while it may be... interesting to him, on a level of pure curiosity mixed with boredom- should be cursed by their priests much more than he was.

She is close now. Close, her face paper thin with dried lips and eyes, spent and tired of life. Shh. There is nothing here. Nothing in here to make you afraid. You are not afraid of shadows, are you?

The stairs were heavily desolated, but he didn’t make a sound. He didn’t want to make a sound. Wailing and blood-thirsty screams and yells were not his style, he was never like that. He gave his victims salvation from pain and sadness, they died with light- light for him- in their eyes, died falling in love with him.

In death, he offered them life.

She doesn’t look up when he enters and closes the door. For her, he isn’t there yet. She is still miserable, resigned to another night and day with the excuse of life she’s been leading. Her soul hasn’t sung for many years.

Too many.

She barely recognises it, but her heart thumped out of rhythm for that perfect moment, and she thinks she could hear singing of angels.

Like those sweet children in the church’s choir. It is full of longing notes and safety, and she knows she needs to rise, to look up, to follow the voice resonating in her heart and mind- for once in accord.

She suddenly doesn’t yearn for dreamless death. Not anymore. She could live with herself, with this sweet surety in her veins. She is safe.

The almost old, work-weary woman approaches Lancelot, hugs him with trust and ease. As if she knew him. And now, she does, because she is a part of him as much as he is a part of her.

“My dear... Thanks to you, I know the love of angels.”

Lancelot hears her whisper while his fangs taste her, and he feels her ecstasy even through the thumping of her blood in his mind. She feels safe and pure now, ready to go to sleep.

She knew peace before her death.

His nostrils flared once afterwards, still tasting the stale- intoxicating, yes- smell of blood in the room. Old blood. He hadn’t spilled even one drop, but the room wore traces of old arguments, the chairs and walls that he traced now with his long fingers told stories of old pain.

“Yes, love... But all that I could ever know is their rage,” Lancelot slowly whispered to himself, giving the room one last glance before leaving it for the rest of the eternity of the world.

Before leaving it for the rest of his long life.

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is, as always, welcome.


End file.
